i'm afraid to look the world in the eye
by moriartsy
Summary: Sherlock injects cocaine at school. Mycroft comes to pick him up. They need to talk.


_a/n: written somewhat hastily at 1 am upon discovering the thing called "letswritesherlock"! please have mercy!_

_the challenge was to write a fic inspired by music. i chose "from here till utopia" by ramshackle glory. some of the dialogue in here is nicked from the lyrics to that song; google it. it's a good song._

* * *

i'm afraid to look the world in the eye.

a _sherlock_ fanfiction

written for "let's write sherlock"

* * *

The two brothers were consummate professionals at the "cold shoulder" routine, especially at times when most other people would consider it extremely inadvisable to leave things unsaid.

But Mycroft had nothing to say to him. There was nothing to say that he didn't already know.

So they rode together in silence, Mycroft driving, Sherlock pouting in the passenger seat.

It wasn't that Mycroft was angry. He knew that anger wasn't productive in this scenario, so he chose not to feel it, because Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not utilitarian.

He was _protective_. That was the issue. He was too protective of his little brother, always had been, always would be. He didn't really see himself as having a choice in the matter, given the abuse the boys suffered at their father's hand, and the way Sherlock's peers ostracized him so completely. Seeing the boy endanger his own life by abusing drugs, Mycroft couldn't help but be a little overbearing.

The boy was foolish. If Mycroft didn't go to certain lengths to protect him, something terrible would happen. Something Mycroft couldn't even find the words to describe. And he would never, ever forgive himself if something did.

Sherlock's private school was thirty-two miles from their home. They would be back to the Holmes manor in approximately six and a half minutes. Back home, and back to their waiting parents.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you, now?"

"Yes," the sixteen-year-old jeered. "You're going to make some vague threat about what Father will do to me when I get back to the house."

Sherlock, since a young age, had always pointedly refused to call the house home. "Sherlock, you know I would never try to threaten you with something as... detestable as that."

Sherlock snorted. "No, I know you'd never stop being a coward long enough to say it to my face. Besides, you don't have to say it. I _know_ you were thinking it."

Perhaps Mycroft's initial assessment of the situation would have to be reevaluated. Perhaps anger was, in fact, necessary. "Fuck you, Sherlock. Fuck you and everything you think you know."

The boy's eyes widened. The twenty-three-year-old rarely used crass language, and never before had he cursed at Sherlock like this.

"I know you get bored, little brother. I know you think there's nothing interesting out there that deserves your attention. I know you think everyone else is stupid. But if you don't step outside the things you believe, they're gonna kill you."

Sherlock looked out the window, hiding his expression. "Maybe that wouldn't be so bad." Mycroft could tell he was going for acidic, but the words came out with a quiver that betrayed him. He bit his lip.

"Sherlock, look at me."

"No."

"_Sherlock_." Mycroft stopped the car in the middle of the road. _There's no other cars, and we need to talk about this._

Reluctantly, the teen looked.

Mycroft's voice became softer then. "I know you won't let anyone stop you from dying young and miserable and right, if that's what you want. But if you want something _better_ than that, you have to put that all aside."

The older brother reached over and took the younger's arm, looking at the track mark that had been made from Sherlock's most recent at-school injection.

"You've got to put _this_ aside, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at his arms. Mycroft pulled his hand away - prolonged physical contact, especially affectionate contact, was neither his nor Sherlock's area - and returned to the task of driving home. He knew that touching or staring or smiling sadly would make Sherlock uncomfortable, and while some boundaries needed to be broken, others needed to be respected.

After a long moment, Sherlock whispered, "Father's still going to kill me."

"No, Sherlock. Not this time."

"What? Are _you_ going to stand up to him, golden boy?"

Mycroft winced at the pejorative. It was what Sherlock called him to try and make him feel guilty for going to London and leaving Sherlock at home, and the insult always succeeded in that attempt. "As a matter of fact, yes. I am a grown man, Sherlock. Father is old now."

"He's lost none of his strength, you know. Well, I suppose you _wouldn't_ know."

"Sherlock, that's enough."

"No!" He was crying now, his face red, tears streaming down it. "Because you say this every time! Every time something happens that Father beats me for, you think you're the hero, and for _five years_ you've been saying things can't go on like this, and the shit goes on and on and on and on!"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. _Really? Was that how things had been_? Thinking back, he _did_ seem to remember other times... but no. This was the last time. This was where it had to end.

"Brother, what happened today is... bigger than anything that's happened in a while. If I don't do _something_, I think... I think Father will go too far."

"He went too far the very first fucking time that he hit us!" It was practically screamed. "And if nothing's going to change, I'd rather _die_! I'd rather _die_ than endure more of it!"

Mycroft realized he was running out of time as he pulled the car onto the street that led directly to the Holmes manor.

"Listen to me, Sherlock." Mycroft spoke urgently. "I will not let that... _vile_ man hurt you. Not today, not ever. Not again." He could tell Sherlock was about to interject, so he held up a hand and surged on. "I know I've... made mistakes. Far too many mistakes, and I should have learned from them before now. But believe me when I say that you and I are not too hopeless to look for a solution."

"I'm afraid that if you find one," Sherlock muttered, "I'll run out of excuses for hating you."

"You don't mean that." Sherlock's silence in response to this statement confirmed the hypothesis.

They were both quiet for the rest of the ride, which wasn't very long; within a minute and a half, they were pulling up to the house. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock made any move to get out of the car for another full minute.

Sherlock was picking at something on his trousers when he spoke again, barely above a whisper. "I don't want to hate you. I don't want to... hate... me."

Mycroft Holmes gave up crying long ago, but he'd be damned if it wasn't difficult for him to resist at that moment. "You don't have to hate everything anymore, Sherlock. I know it's hard to give a damn about the world sometimes, but... promise me you'll always try."

There was a long pause before Sherlock nodded. And with that, the two brothers went into the house together.

* * *

_a/n: is this ending happy or angsty? you decide._

_again: check out ramshackle glory! punk rock with all the wrong instruments!_


End file.
